Dear Teacher, You're Racist.

When I was in fourth grade, I had the coolest babysitter in the world. Her name was Rebecca and she was going to school for cosmetology. I looked up to her- she was the older sister I never had. She introduced me to TuPac, Biggie, Warren G- the O.G.s! I was in the hood (where I wanted to be), walking around my house with my Walkman blasting "This DJ."

We were always stylin' with Rebecca around. Since my younger sisters and I all had long hair, she loved practicing what she learned in class on our brown manes. By the time her class was on the Ethnic Hair chapter, I knew this was my time to shine (please note that I do not have ethnic hair).

I walked into Ms. Lee's fourth grade class one morning as the only kid in school with cornrows. Eight, fat rows of braids plaited my big head. Classmates commented on my unusual 'do but I thought I was on the cutting edge of fashion. As I look back, I think this was my way of celebrating my Black heritage. But being mixed, I look more Japanese than I do Black. So cornrows on my head looked just as natural as they did on David Beckham's.

This was also the day I decided it was time to start dressing in my dad's over-sized Nike shirts, coupled with baggy pants. A huge improvement from the B.U.M. Equipment sweatsuits that my mom bought me on layaway. I thought I looked fly like Da Brat.

The next weekend, Rebecca had learned how to do extensions and had extra hair in the trunk of her rickety 1981 Datsun 310. Following her out to the car, I squealed in delight as she showed me the fake plastic hair that would hang from my head in four short hours. I remember the distinct smell of the cheap plastic hair burning as she used her Bic lighter to close the ends of the braids.

On Monday, I was the only kid in school debuting a head full of long dookie braids. I was trying to channel Janet Jackson a la Poetic Justice. I wouldn't know until years later that I had failed. Horribly.

I had class with my best friend and we always got sent out in the hall for chatting too much. During the weeks of the ethnic hairstyles, the chattering increased even more. I had to tell her I was going to be in Poetic Justice 2 as Janet's double. Hello!

After I was sent out to the hall for the umpteenth time, I decided that I had had enough. It was my right to chat about my fly hair. It was time to take action. It was time to right the wrongs done to my fellow brothers and sisters. It was time to write!

"Dear Ms. Lee,
I am always out in the hallway and I don't think that's fair. My friends get put in the hallway too. We shouldn't be out in the hall anymore. I think you're racist.
Sincerely,
HLS"

I sealed the envelope with a loogie and promptly delivered it to her desk the next morning.

I cannot imagine what she must have been thinking when she read what I wrote. It wouldn't be the last time that my writing would put me in the hot seat (for those of you that know my full name, google it- everything that pops up is true).

Lucky for me, I probably hurt Ms. Lee's feelings more than igniting them, as I got a letter back from her a few days later:

"Dear HLS,
You are one of the brightest students in my class. It is not you that is upsetting me, but your actions. When you talk to your friends while I am teaching, it is distracting for me and the other students. This also interferes with what you learn as well. I am not trying to single you out because of your ethnicity. Please know that you are a delight to have in my classroom. I just encourage to make good choices about your behavior.

Sincerely,
Ms. Lee"

It would take a lot patience for me to write a letter as calmly as Ms. Lee did. My letter must have worked, as I was sent to the hall less frequently. But then again, I also had to take the dookie braids out a week after I got them. I guess we'll never know if she was really racist or not.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but being the only kid in school with ethnic hair will get you sent out to the hall.

And you thought YOU had a rough day at work

You may have noticed by now, that I have a gift for getting myself into the most unlikely situations. I was fated to be a good story teller, but at my own expense. What I’m about to tell you sounds like it should have come from a TV show rather than my everyday life. Even I didn’t know what happened until after it was over.

As I previously mentioned, working with the public is like dying a slow a painful death for 40 hours a week. During this particular week, it was like being bludgeoned with a butter knife for 40 hours. Those of us who work in retail or the food industry have a plethora of stories in our vault that attest to the inhumane, childish and downright crazy antics of the American people.

I encountered one such person on this cold February day. I was pushing carts at work, minding my own business, when it suddenly occurred to me that someone was screaming in the background. I had been tuning it out because I was used to such unpleasant noises coming from the kind of people I served at this particular store. However, the screaming became louder and louder until suddenly I turned around, and realized this woman was screaming at me.

This wasn't your average middle-aged woman. She loomed over my 5’4” frame- she was at least 6'5" if not 7' tall, and had long, brown, scraggly hair, which was covered by a ratty black beanie. She was dressed in Goodwill's finest, and her clothes were begging for an encounter with a washing machine and a cup of Tide.

"DO YOU LIKE MY PERFUME?!!" she screamed at me repeatedly. Judging by the looks of her, perfume was definitely not the last thing she came into contact with. Her last encounter with anything probably involved white powder and one of her long dirty fingernails.

"DO YOU LIKE MY PERFUME?!" her eyes were wide and maniacal and she was coming closer to me.

I made the mistake of turning my back to her and hoping she'd just ignore me. This was not unlike the childhood belief that if you closed your eyes, scary monsters would go away. Why I thought I would get lucky and have her ignore me was just ignorant. I should’ve known better. Luck and I have never rendezvoused, as this entire blog so candidly explains.

Suddenly she decided that she needed to come into contact with me. She reached her arms around my head while I had my back towards her and she began touching my face!! Her hands were enclosed in smelly, black, knit gloves and –yuck! They were on me!

"DO YOU LIKE MY PERFUME? YOU SHOULD, BECAUSE I HAVE DEAD CAT ON MY HANDS!!!"

Holy crap. What was going on?! Panic mode!

"Get the F--- away from me! DO NOT TOUCH ME!" I screamed at her, batting her hands away. She looked enraged that I refused her eau de dead carcass.

I made for the doorway of the building and to my dismay she followed me. I ran inside the store and spun around to get ready for her next move. She put her hands on top of the doorframe and started calling me every name in the book. Customers stopped what they were doing and employees froze in disbelief.

When she was done with her rant, I yelled, “GET THE F--- OUT OF THE STORE!!!” Everyone was still frozen, so I yelled, “HELLO?! CAN SOMEONE CALL THE F----N’ POLICE?!” I was definitely not getting employee of the month.

She taunted back, “You can’t get me because I’m in the GARAGE NOW!!” She started pulling on the doorframe as if she were bringing the entire 120,000 square foot structure down. Unfortunately, crack did not turn her into Samson and give her biblical strength. The building went nowhere.

To prevent me from creating more of a scene, a manager came and led me away. I was visibly shaken and not sure what had just happened. Adrenaline was still pumping through my system and the rest of my shift was a blur. All I remember is that they allowed me to not push carts, and gave me the privilege of packing groceries instead. Why they didn’t just send me home is a testament to the way they value their employees.

The store manager finally came out of the office where he was probably watching clips on YouTube. Instead of calling the police, he watched the drug addict go from store to store harassing people until she faded away into the horizon. I was later told that I was at the wrong place at the wrong time and that no documentation was needed for the event.

I wonder what they would have done if a man had come up and started touching my face and harassing me. I was pissed and lost a lot of respect for the company that day. Who knew what that crack head would have done had she encountered me deeper in the parking lot, and not near the store’s entrance?

When my shift finally ended, I went home to my roommate who asked, “So how was your day?”

“You won’t believe what happened…”

I will never forget that day at work. Now I have a desk job. And damnit, I've earned it!

Sticks and Stones will break your bones, but turning your back on screaming crack heads will give you a great story to tell for the rest of your life.

Where's an easy bake oven when you need one?

I've always wanted to be really good at cooking. It's something I've been actively failing at for 25 years, but that has not deterred me from giving up (unfortunately for my dinner guests). I've done it all: started a fire in the microwave, forgotten a crucial ingredient, had too much confidence and "made up" a concoction that made even myself sick, burned a plethora of dishes, and have even managed to screw up boxed cupcakes. Did I also mention that I can barely pour myself a glass of milk? I can guarantee you that I'm the world's worst chef, and yet I still love to host dinner parties. My friends have now assumed that these are pot lucks, and that they are bringing the main course, leaving me to supply the wine or ice cream.

My infatuation with making up my own concoctions began around the age of six. My mom would allow me to help her from time to time, and my favorite thing to do was crack eggs. I think I enjoyed the challenge of it- there was such a delicate balance between getting it right or making a mess, and my favorite was the latter- I loved putting my hands in a good egg that "accidentally" dropped from sky to floor. I can't say that my mom was in agreement.

I would imagine I was the best chef in the world. Behind my mother's back of course, I stood at the entrance of our kitchen, tall and proud and ready to make the biggest mess- I mean dish, that I possibly could. I grabbed the blender, every spice I could find, raw eggs (my recipes always included raw eggs), oil, sugar, flour, bacon-you name it- it was in my concoction. I thought that I would just magically create the best recipe ever known to mankind. I would force my sister to taste test whatever concoction managed to stay off the floor. This was always served in our Disney cups that we got off the back of a Kellogg's cereal offer. Aladdin could make any concoction look convincing to try. I must have known it was going to taste awful, otherwise I would have tried the concoctions for myself. The trials always ended with my sister either spitting it out, or barfing it up.

My family can testify that I was one of the crueler older sisters known to history.

Fun fact: I didn't like eggs until I was 19 years old.

In high school, my mother was busy cooking in the kitchen and realized that she forgot to buy cucumbers, an essential ingredient in the dish she was cooking. I came back with a zucchini because I didn't know the difference. They were both green, long and...curved right? This was also around the same time I put cabbage on my sandwich because I thought it was lettuce. I wish I were making up this entry.

In college, I wanted to become the grill master and take over the burgers for our summer kegger. Somehow, I managed to cook everyone's burger without incident except for mine. The bloody patty made my bun soggy, but I somehow didn't notice until it was too late. I was starving so it wasn't until my burger was half gone that I realized I wasn't feeling so well. This resulted in me running to the porcelain throne before I even had a chance to get my first beer down. My sister didn't have to seek revenge. I was my own worst enemy. Oh Karma.

I've been trying to become a better cook. Practice makes perfect right? (Or so they say- so far this theory has failed me). My mom has entrusted me with the green bean casserole for Thanksgiving and nothing more. I offered to make the turkey and she didn't even let me finished before she yelled, "ABSOLUTELY NOT. I WANT TO EAT THIS THANKSGIVING!"

Oh well. In the meantime, Halloween is just around the corner. It's the perfect opportunity to pretend I'm something I'm not- a 1950's housewife. I'm supposed to bake a plate of cookies to add to my costume's effect. I'm just calling the hospital now so an ambulance is on call. Sorry in advance for any obituaries you may see in the November 1st edition of Seattle Times.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but being stubborn in the kitchen can be good business for your local hospital.

Self-Writeousness

As a child, I was always in trouble for not paying attention in class. It wasn't because I was busy writing to my crush: "Do you like me? Circle Yes or No" or because I was picking my nose and daydreaming about the latest episode of Salute Your Shorts - I was too busy reading a book under my desk. Yup. I was that kid. And okay, I was doing all of the above when I wasn't reading.

When my nose wasn't buried between pages, I was trying to jump start my own writing career. It has been a lifelong dream of mine to be a published writer. I remember setting out to write my first story. I had all of the intentions of publishing it and becoming the first 8 year-old in history to have a number one book on the New York Times Bestsellers List. Yes, I knew the importance of this career-making list at age 8. That's how bad this was.

My first attempted story was titled, "Jackie's Life," the chronicles of a minority kid, growing up in a gang-riddled ghetto with step-brothers and step-sisters. I have no idea why I thought I was knowledgeable in such matters. I grew up one of the few minority students in an all-white, affluent city, with two younger biological sisters and my parents were still together. I think I wrote "Jackie's Life" the day after I watched Spike Lee's "Crooklyn." That made me an expert.

Now that I really do live in a neighborhood riddled with gang violence, it is not as romantic as I made it out to be in my story. I actually had a scene where Jackie gets a gun pointed in her face and then she suddenly forgets about it and goes inside to make cookies for her friends. No comment.

Proud of the first three chapters of my hit novel, which dealt with runaways and drug-use, I decided I was ready to give it shot- I wrote a handwritten letter to Scholastic Books, the company that published my all-time favorite series: the Baby-sitters Club. I asked them if they would be interested in publishing my first novel. If they were interested in publishing stories about babysitters, they had to be interested in publishing stories about drug-using family members, right?

I really wished I would have made a copy of my letter, as I can't recall exactly what it said. But I distinctly remember that I did not send my novel with my request. I only had one handwritten copy- no way was I parting with that cash cow. What if they didn't send it back? I'd be screwed! They would just have to be dazzled by my riveting summary. I kept my fingers crossed as I ended my letter with "P.S. Can you give me some tips on how to publish my first book?" I used my best cursive and signed my name with a star over the I in my last name.

And then I waited.

Three long, arduous months passed and my hopes were flying higher than Gary Busey (fun story). I had actually convinced myself that the publishing contract was coming back to me in the mailbox. I had collected an array of colorful pens, and I was deciding which color to sign the contract with, when my dad came up to my room with The Letter.

I snatched it out of his hands and slammed the door in his face. This was going to be my moment, and only mine! Why was this envelope so thin? Didn't contracts come in thick packages? Hmm...maybe this is just the first letter they send to let me know the contract is coming.

Then there it was:

"Dear Ms. Shipman,

We regret to inform you that we will not be able to publish your novel-"

A scream pierced through the air which was suddenly filled with tiny shreds of paper. I didn't even realize what had happened until it was over. I had a rage blackout. The Letter was no longer. I didn't even read the rest of it.

"What is going on?" my mom rushed in concerned.

I was crying now because I would never be able to share Jackie's Life with the world. She would forever stay in the closet.

My mom held me and said, "I didn't even know you wrote to Scholastic. Why didn't you share the letter with me? I wish I could have seen it."

I couldn't believe she wanted to see The Letter. Why would she want to revel in my rejection? I couldn't take it. My 8 year-old world was crashing down around me. What would I ever do?

I kept writing. And kept sticking my nose in a book.

Sadly, I didn't attempt to get Jackie's Life published again. I went through a journalism stint in high school but then my self-righteousness prevented me from majoring in it in college. "The laws of journalism are stifling my creative soul. I just can't be free," Fucking 19 year-old. I traded my dream in to work for The Man. Gotta love capitalism.

I am happy to say, that my dreams of being a writer are finally starting to come to fruition 16 years after I received The Letter from Scholastic. Thanks to the help of this blog and a good friend, I was offered the opportunity to contribute to a publication here in Seattle! Stay tuned for more adventures online and in print :)

Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but don't let rejection keep you from saying what you gotta say.